


How To Train Your Werewolf

by letsleepingwerewolveslie (aishitaeru)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, BAMF Stiles, Crossover, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Forbidden Love, Friendship, Honor, Humor, Isolation, M/M, War, Werewolves, how to train your dragon, werewolves vs humans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishitaeru/pseuds/letsleepingwerewolveslie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killing a werewolf would get Stiles noticed, give him status, give him the confidence to walk up to Lydia and get the date he’d been dreaming of since he was ten years old. Killing a wolf—something that not even Scott had done yet, nor Jackson—would bring his family honor, and prove that Stiles wasn’t the useless son of the sheriff, that he was just as good, hell, better! It meant everything, and Stiles was going to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the world of How To Train Your Dragon with specific Teen Wolf related changes. Enjoy.
> 
> EDIT (July 31, 2013): I've made a few changes to the first chapter, because while writing and giving it a few months, I went back and made it a bit better, caught some mistakes, so if you're just coming back to read new chapters, I suggest you re-read chapter 1.

Beacon Hills, located twenty miles south of nowhere and thirty miles west of isolated. Living in California didn’t have so many perks when you were surrounded on all sides by monster infested forests and laws forbidding anyone from leaving unless absolutely necessary. In a word, Beacon Hills is…protected. Most of the town consists and men and women who have trained their entire lives to protect the town’s citizens and the rest contribute to our survival by providing basic needs. We hunt, fish, gather, all the while avoiding the deeper parts of the forest where one could disappear entirely. Some people out there think staying in the same town your entire life is miserable, but Stiles would scoff at such ignorant ideas because he’s never even visited another town. Most people don’t know how lucky they really have it. Other places have to worry about serial killers, prostitution, or really bad weather. Beacon Hills has to worry about another type of danger. 

Werewolves.

That’s right. Giant man-wolf nightmares with razor sharp teeth, enhanced senses, and chilling howls that echo in the night. Most people would leave, right? Desert the town that can barely survive in the middle of the forest because who would be crazy enough to stay? Beacon Hills would. We’ve been here for ten generations, supposedly, and we were not leaving. We’d made our home here and would continue to be here until we all died off. Comforting, isn’t it?

But we’re werewolf hunters. We have territorial issues.

Stiles…is a strange name, he’ll admit. It’s not his real name, but only his parents could pronounce his birth name and Stiles has a nice ring to it. Stiles Stilinski. So easy a five-year-old could sound it out.

His father, being the town’s sheriff, was one of the most respected people in Beacon Hills. Stiles had a lot to live up to, and he was, unfortunately, one of the apples that fell far from the tree. He fell far and rolled all the way down the mountain into a river only to be washed away into the ocean. His dad was sharp and strong, even for his age, and was even stronger in his prime. He used to be the best hunter in Beacon Hills before Chris Argent took over the position. They say when his dad turned eighteen he fought of a rouge Alpha alone and walked away with only a gash to the leg, saving Beacon Hills single-handedly from the enemy wolves. Did Stiles believe it? Yes he did. 

Maybe Stiles took after his mother, because even if his dad hadn’t been the best hunter in Beacon Hills once upon a time, Stiles would still never live up to him. Stiles wouldn’t know, of course, because his mom had passed away when he was only a baby. Being isolated prevented contact with the outside world and Stiles often wondered if his mother could have survived had they been able to get her help elsewhere. He didn’t linger on that thought too much, carefully avoiding the touchy topic. Stiles lived with his father, and with no other relatives to take after, it was assumed by the entire town that Stiles would follow in the footsteps of his dad and become the new hero. Stiles was no hero, he could barely pass for a sidekick. And that was on a good day. 

Stiles was a hyper active, ADHD, clumsy, skinny teenager who couldn’t aim a bow to save his life, literally, or handle a gun with any sort of accuracy; though, he was pretty good with wolfsbane and mountain ash if he did say so himself, and being Deaton’s assistant was only improving his defensive skills. 

An offensive werewolf hunter, he was not. 

Which left Stiles as the odd man out within the teenagers his age, who were all more than capable of knocking off a few wolf heads and were looking forward to the chance to mount them on the wall and wear sharp canines around their necks.

Even Scott, weirdo extraordinaire and Stiles’ best friend, was excelling in training. Despite the occasional asthma attacks and puppy-like attention span, the guy was actually in the top of their class. Didn’t help Stiles’ ego, having a buff best friend who got the girls and the majority of Finstock’s bizarre praise.

Allison, the daughter of Chris Argent (aka: current crowned huntsman who owns more assault weapons than anyone else in town) and Victoria Argent, took after her parents in a way Stiles could never achieve. Her archery skills were off the charts and she just so happened to be an 8 on the Stilinski Chart of Hotness. A chart of which Scott has no clue about, but Stiles was not ignorant to the two love bird’s “secret” meetings after dark, and he was a good enough friend to rate his best friend’s girlfriend in silence. He was honest and Allison was pretty hot.

Of course they’re were others in their little rag-tag group of friends (made up of frenemies as well) including: Jackson Whittemore, resident asshole and on par with Scott for number one in training, who also makes Stiles’ life a living hell, Danny Mahealani, Jackson’s best friend and probably one of the youngest in Beacon Hills to have access to Argent’s strategies—not legally, by the way—and Lydia Martin, the most beautiful girl in Beacon Hills—a twelve on the Stilinski Chart of Hotness because her smarts made her even more beautiful—who can handle any and all weapons as well as conjure up over one hundred different cocktails of wolfsbane. She was everything Stiles’ strived to be and was the star actress of Stiles’ ten year plan to Make Lydia His Girl. He was on year five and as of now she was with Jackson, both of them taking out training courses without breaking a sweat then going off to romp on Jackson’s bed. But Jackson was an idiot and Stiles reassured himself that Lydia would soon come to terms with reality: Stiles was the only man capable of worshiping the girl like she deserved. And Lydia would discover that. Give him another five years to prove it.

The next step in Stiles’ ten year plan of seducing Lydia Martin involved killing his own werewolf; which, if you haven’t gotten the picture yet, meant everything. Killing a werewolf would get him noticed, give him status, give him the confidence to walk up to Lydia and get the date he’d been dreaming of since he was ten years old. Killing a wolf—something that not even Scott had done yet, nor Jackson—would bring his family honor, and prove that Stiles wasn’t the useless son of the sheriff, that he was just as good, hell, better! It meant everything, and Stiles was going to do it.

Deaton believed otherwise. The doctor has been Stiles’ guide for as long as he could remember and only recently had been enforcing the idea that Stiles’ strengths lie in herbs not arms. Which, Stiles is aware, okay? He’s not stupid. He knows that he’s not the strongest guy in the world and he realizes he’s not as in control of the way his body moves as he’d like, but Deaton acts like he can’t learn. He totally can. He was planning on working out with Scott for Christ’s sake. He’d become stronger and he wouldn’t have to rely on mountain ash or any other powder that could only render the wolves debilitated. No one notices the trap, they notice the kill.

But he’s been learning healing techniques and defensive herbology for years, and he’s good at it. He can splint an arm in a quick minute with the right materials and simple pain medicine is a no-brainer, at least, if you knew the land. Which Stiles did, being the sheriff’s son. He’s not on Deaton’s level by any means, but Stiles has infinite respect for the man. Should the town be attacked by werewolves, it was Deaton who saved lives and treated the wounded. It was Deaton who comforted the sick and who was trying to teach Stiles everything he knew. But being the doctor’s apprentice wasn’t in Stiles’ destiny. He wanted to be normal; he wanted to be a hunter.

“You know, I believe you have a natural talent, Stiles.”

“Oh yeah? Because I know the difference between two chemical compounds and can tell  
which is deadly and which is non-lethal? That’s not talent, that’s education.”

Deaton gave him a carefully blank expression. “And you think, with enough education, you can become a skilled hunter?”

“You don’t just pop out of the womb a werewolf hunter, Deaton. Of course you have to learn.”

“While I do agree that yes, training is a learning process, it’s much more than that. It’s a development of one’s senses, brain-development, a body’s development; it’s in your DNA. It’s evolution.”

“Are you implying that I am genetically incapable of killing a werewolf?”

“I’m saying that if you ever want to go out there and become a hunter, you’re going stop being all of…this.”

Stiles eyebrows shoot straight up, because Deaton’s gesture? “You just gestured to all of me.”

“Yes. You’ll have to stop being you.”

“Oh. Okay. I see. You have no clue man, but holding in all of this raw, throbbing, hunting prowess? It’s gonna backfire.” 

“It already has. Now, how about you organize the medications in the shelves over there?”

Stiles walks away, muttering about the unfairness of his job and plotting his way to fame and glory.

—

There’s this one wolf who never steals food, who never terrorizes the village like the rest of the pack; instead this wolf targets and destroys. It makes itself known by howling at the full moon and crashing through homes, ignoring the humans and leaving destruction and pain in its wake. The other wolves raid to survive, to steal sheep and cattle and attempt to scare the hunters with sheer force of numbers, but the Alpha? The Alpha wants them gone and no hunter has been able to stop him. The town’s border has always been marked by the tree line, but the Alpha has been slowly taking over abandoned homes and farms, building his territory and steadily closing the humans in. It scares the shit out of the town, and the hunters? Always planning, bringing in Stiles’ dad, Deaton, and Argent, the three best minds in Beacon Hills, in order to protect the town, but from what Stiles has heard from his eavesdropping, none of them had come up with a sure fire plan and the only thing they could do for now was prepare for the next full moon.

Stiles rushes over to Scott’s right after one of the meetings comes to a close, and tells him everything he’s heard. Scott doesn’t have much to say, but he tries to be a good friend and support Stiles when the older boy explains his idea for the full moon. He has a week until then, and though Scott tries to poke holes in his plot, it’s useless. At the next raid, Stiles is going to kill a werewolf.

—

Everything goes wrong when the wolves cause three houses in town to burst into flames. Hunters are rushing around, collecting armor and weapons, fiercely attacking the werewolves who are running the town rampant. Women and children are herded inside and those his age are told to help put out the fire and bring anyone who was hurt to the hospital. It’s chaos and Stiles has no time to grab any of his intended tools, only enough to grab his leather chest plate and rush to the other side of town, catching up with the rest of the gang and helping hose down the blazing flames. Battle cries and snarls surround them and Stiles tries to focus on his friends, on their safety, on the fire. His time is running out; the wolves only stay for half an hour at the most, grabbing the food they can before disappearing into the safety of the woods and then he’ll have to wait another month to get a second chance. Glancing around wildly, Stiles sees that only one house still burns. Allison is no where to be found, probably off with her father shooting arrows at unsuspecting wolves. Lydia, Jackson, Danny, and Scott are working on the fire, but Stiles can tell Scott’s having trouble breathing, and dammit, Stiles isn’t going to let Scott have an asthma attack right now. He grabs his best friend’s armor straps and drags him through the alleyway between the library and one of the few churches still operating in the town, both buildings having avoided any damage by the wolves as well as giving them distance from the smoke. 

Scott bends over, hands on his knees as he takes deep, shuddering breathes. Stiles snatches the inhaler out from his friend’s pocket and holds it up for him to take. Scott’s smile is strained as he draws in the medication, both of them taking a chance to catch their breath. After a minute they’re both much calmer and Scott’s skin color is back to normal. Stiles can’t see anymore flames from his position and he knew it was only a matter of time before the wolves retreated back into the forest. They were safe, things would be okay.

He was so, so wrong.

A blood curdling howl cuts through the still town, echoing within the walls surrounding them, freezing Stiles’ heart for a long moment, and then he sees a shadow running straight for him and Scott.

Bright red eyes flash in the dark and Stiles tries to run, they both do, but it’s no use. His best friend cries out and Stiles takes a chance, looks back, only to find Scott lying on his side in the dirt, the wolf growling as blood pours from his mouth and on the ground, teeth digging into Scott’s flesh. 

It isn’t courage that fills Stiles at that moment, it’s fear; fear for his best friend’s life and his own. The knife strapped to his thigh only nine inches long, but Stiles brandishes like he’s held one his entire life. The battle cry he emits is something from ancient hunters of the past and he dashes forward, intending on killing the wolf or die trying.

The wolf looks up at his shout and seems to grin, teeth glinting in the dark as it stands over Scott’s body, but turns tail and fucking runs before Stiles gets within ten feet. Stiles chases after, but the giant black creature is faster as it slips into the trees yards beyond the church and the night hides it from view. Stiles jumps over a few gravestones before skidding to a halt two feet past the town’s border and screaming his rage, stabbing his dagger into the nearest tree as his body wracks with shudders.

“Sti-les,” Scott’s voice is weak and scared and fuck. Stiles fumbles over as fast as he can, his legs giving out a few feet away so he just crawls over to his best friend, ignoring the blood on his pants as he grabs a hold of Scott’s hand. 

“Scott, buddy, you okay?” 

“I,” cough, “yeah, I’m fine. Just a little bite. No big deal.”

“Just a little bite? Scott you know what a werewolf bite means.”

Scott’s face gets even more pale and Stiles knows it isn’t all from the blood loss. 

“It wasn’t that bad, right? It won’t…I’ll be the same.”

Stiles winces as his knee squishes in Scott’s blood, the red staining the grass and their clothes. “I’m gonna look, okay, buddy?” Scott just grunts and turns his head away, eyes clenched shut and Stiles takes in the bites marks along Scott’s leather armor. The wolf’s teeth had broken through the fabric like it was butter and it only makes him wonder how their chain metal ones would have held up. He lifts the torn flaps away from Scott’s side, bringing up the tattered remains of his t-shirt with it and suddenly Stiles feels like he’s going to hurl.

A large bite wound seeps blood from his friend’s side, Scott’s tan skin a stark contrast. Stiles shakes his head and breathes through his mouth. The wound is deep, at least two inches, but the blood flow tells him the cuts weren’t bad enough to hit a major blood vessel, or worse, an organ. Which is both good and bad. Good because his friend wouldn’t be dead any time soon; bad because there was an eighty percent chance of Scott transforming into a werewolf himself. He might as well be dead.

Tears are forming in Stiles’ eyes and he blinks them away harshly, taking a deep breath and clearing his mind. This was not the time for a panic attack. He had to get Scott some help. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Scott. Let’s get you to the clinic, okay?”

It takes Stiles a few minutes to haul up Scott’s body, because every time Scott breathes it seems to hurt and the lifting was not helping. He tells Scott to suck it up, and without any warning, jerks his body into a standing position—ignoring Scott’s shout—and wrapping his arm around Stiles’ shoulder, shuffling towards Deaton’s.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killing a werewolf would get Stiles noticed, give him status, give him the confidence to walk up to Lydia and get the date he’d been dreaming of since he was ten years old. Killing a wolf—something that not even Scott had done yet, nor Jackson—would bring his family honor, and prove that Stiles wasn’t the useless son of the sheriff, that he was just as good, hell, better! It meant everything, and Stiles was going to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I advise those of you who were anxiously awaiting a new chapter to go back and re-read chapter 1, because I've made a few slight changes and it will probably help refresh your memory from all those long months waiting for this. Sorry for the delay, I'm the type of person who hates waiting for a new chapter too, so I get it. But here you go.
> 
> Un-beta'd, sorry for any glaring grammar errors.

They’re lucky no one spots them. The fire’s out and the town is in the process of counting cattle and cleaning up the damage. Everyone seems too busy to notice two teenagers have gone missing, at least for now. Scott’s useless as far as walking goes, but he doesn’t complain and Stiles is grateful. Deaton’s clinic is quiet when they slip in from the back, but the lights are on so Stiles calls out for the doctor, bringing Scott over to the examination table. They get him situated and Stiles slumps into the nearest chair, calling out again. 

“Stiles, call me any louder and the entire town will—Scott?”

Stiles jumps up again, even as his muscles protest the movement. He’s tired and he probably pulled something in his mad dash, but Scott’s injuries are more important and Stiles’ adrenaline is still running high. “Thank God you’re here. Is anyone else here? If they are they have to leave because something really bad happened and no one else can know about it.”

“No one’s here. I just got back to grab some things before I head over to the hospital. What happened?”

Stiles runs a nervous hand over his short hair and walks over to Scott, jerking his shirt up and exposing the crusty, bloody wound. “Sorry,” he mutters when Scott yelps.

Deaton rushes over, reaching into the drawers and pulling out a first-aid kid. “Mind explaining, boys?”

“We stepped away from the fire because Scott was inhaling too much smoke but then just as we were about to go back this giant wolf comes out of no where and chases us. I looked back and Scott was on the ground. I tried to get the thing but it ran away! Ran away, Deaton! What kind of wolf tries to eat one of us then runs?”

“I knew I was tastier than you, dude.” 

“Shut up, Scott. You are not.”

“The wound is pretty deep,” Deaton interrupts, swiping his towel over Scott’s bloody side, cleaning off the dried parts and exposing the entire bite. It’s not as bad without the gore, but the danger hasn’t left.

Scott’s voice sounds young and scared, “Is it bad? Am I gonna…turn?”

Deaton sighs and leans back, grabbing a large bandage and some tape. “I haven’t seen a werewolf bite in a long time, boys. I can’t be certain, but I do believe there’s a high possibility. We won’t know for sure until the next full moon.”

“What about a cure? What if we use wolfsbane, or something? If it’s this early can’t we stop it?”

“I’ve never dealt with something like this, Stiles. I worry that wolfsbane will only be fatal for Scott. It’s poisonous to humans and deadly to werewolves. I doubt it would cure anything.” 

They’re all quiet for the next few minutes, watching Deaton bandage Scott up while their minds race over the impending threat.

“Please don’t tell anyone, Deaton,” Scott pleads, sitting up slowly. The older man looks at both boys, lips thin and brows furrowed.

“I don’t like keeping this from the town. If Scott is going to turn he’s going to be very dangerous.”

“But he’ll be fine for another month. I won’t let him hurt anyone,” Stiles tries to persuade.

“I won’t hurt anyone, anyway,” Scott assures.

Deaton shakes his head slowly, clearly opposed to the idea. “I won’t say anything for now. But you both should be getting home now, it’s late.”

The spare clothes Stiles’ keeps at the clinic are the only bright side to the night. They both change, Scott needing a little help, and make their way to the door, thanking Deaton on the way.

“Be careful, you two.” 

Being careful didn’t stop Scott from being bitten, so Stiles doesn’t think it really matters.

—

He drops Scott off first, making sure he gets home fine and helps him walk up the stairs. Melissa McCall is still out, probably talking an all-nighter at the hospital like usual on the full moon. Hopefully Stiles’ dad is doing the same, working while Stiles slips home and showers.

Scott fumbles into bed and practically moans at the comfortable sheets. Stiles has the sudden urge to do the same, but he knows it’s not possible at the moment. He probably couldn’t sleep even if he wanted to.

He pats Scott’s arm and stands up, “I’ll be heading home now. I’ll be over tomorrow, okay?”

“Stiles,” Scott calls, and Stiles stops just before he can escape through the door, turning to his best friend. “I’m sorry this happened. It’s all my fault. Me and my stupid asthma…”

Stiles sighs, leaning against the door frame. “You know it wasn’t your fault. It’s not your fault you have asthma or my fault that I have ADHD. I shouldn’t have taken us into that alley. The wolf saw easy bait.”

Scott shakes his head. “It’s fine, Stiles. It’ll be fine. If I turn into a werewolf I’ll run.”

“Run? Where?”

“To the woods, the forest. I’ll go be with them. I can’t stay here and be a danger to you or Mom or Allison. Besides, if they found out I’d be killed.”

“You don’t think the werewolves would kill you for running to them? You think they’ll accept you?” Clearly Scott hadn’t been listening during training, but really, Scott staring into Allison’s eyes had been an obvious clue to that.

Scott shrugs helplessly. “Why else would it bite me and run? It wanted to turn me.”

“Why you? Why not someone stronger, someone older?”

“How should I know, man? Look, a month from now, if I do turn… Just make sure I don’t hurt anyone. Kill me, if I do. I don’t want to live at all if I do.”

Stiles swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry and his heart pounds hard in his chest. How can Scott ask him to do that? Stiles has known Scott since he was a baby, they’ve been friends since before they could crawl. It wasn’t fair, none of this was fair.

“I…”

“Promise me.”

“Scott—”

“Promise.” Scott’s eyes are bright and fierce, something about his gaze completely foreign to Stiles. 

“Fine,” he agrees, if only to placate his best friend. “I’ll do it.”

Scott lies back, smiling lightly. “Thanks, Stiles.”

Stiles nods and walks out, unable to handle the look on Scott’s face.

—

The next day Stiles sneaks into the counsel meeting. His dad had come home early that morning and slept for only three hours before coming down to City Hall. He’s hidden in a stock closet just outside the meeting room, giving him the perfect position to listen in without being too close. He settles himself on the floor, leaning against the wall as the members of the counsel settle in. His father and Mr. Argent are there, along with the Mayor and many of the older hunters. A few women are inside too, Stiles recognizes Ms. McCall and thanks the heavens for giving Scott more time to hide the bite.

They start out discussing the losses last night, how many sheep were taken (ten, the largest number yet), how many cows (two), and those who were injured in the raid (two men ended up with a broken limb, one woman had fainted, and those in the burning houses had inhaled smoke and were staying at the hospital for another day.) Stiles added Scott’s bite to their list mentally, but he was glad to hear no one had been seriously injured. As far as the town’s physical damage, the list became extensive, and Stiles tuned out for a bit, picking at his nails and staring off into the distance of the closet.

“Allison tells me she didn’t see Scott after the kids put out the fire, is he back at home?” Stiles perks up at Mr. Argent’s question and listens for Melissa’s reply.

“He was up this morning, but he looked really worn out. He told me he had a bit of a bad reaction to the smoke and had to get away to use his inhaler. I, for one, have no clue why he was assigned to that job. His lungs can’t handle it.”

“The fire was a danger to the town, we couldn’t leave it unattended.” 

“Yes, but my son—”

Stiles’ dad steps in, “Now now, we all know Scott’s asthma is an issue. It wasn’t fair that he was in on the job with the others but he’s safe so let’s all be grateful for that.”

Stiles scoffed softly, because they had no idea.

“The wolves got away with a quarter of our sheep. It’s getting colder out and winter will be here before we know it. The wolves are going to get bolder; the Alpha is going to strike. He didn’t last night, which only gives us more reason to be suspicious, and we can all assume that these monsters are going to be grabbing us before long, not the cattle.”

One of the men on Stiles’ father’s squad speaks up, “Are we sure the Alpha didn’t strike? We heard the howl just before the wolves retreated. Maybe he was in another section of town?”

Stiles’ heart thumps faster in his chest, because the howl had come from the wolf they’d encountered last night. If that was the Alpha…

“We had every one of our men out searching the borders until sunrise; we saw no sign of the Alpha or any territorial changes. It must have just called the pack back to the den.” 

“They’ll be missing three of their own and receiving a wounded member.”

Stiles jerks so hard he’s lucky the noise didn’t alert anyone in the meeting. What did Argent mean, missing three?

“You captured those three betas? They’re safely contained?”

“What are you all talking about?” Thank you, Ms. McCall, Stiles thinks.

“We captured three betas last night, and we fired a valley of arrows at another, larger beta. The last one escaped into the preserve, but was badly injured. The three we have are locked in the electrical holding cells within the prison and are restrained and sedated. They have yet to transform back into their human forms.”

The room goes quiet and Stiles’ mind is racing. Three beta werewolves in town? They’ve only ever captured one werewolf before, three years ago, but the wolf refused to speak and ended up committing suicide before anyone could stop him. Stiles had been too young to see the wolf, but Stiles often listened in on his father’s conversations about the creature and from what he’d heard it seemed like none of the hunters understood the wolf’s motives. They called it a phenomenon, a freak situation. Werewolves didn’t commit suicide, not without struggle, not without giving up something. 

“We need to investigate them, then. I’ll have some of my men ready to head there by tonight.” Stiles’ father sounded tired and resigned, but Stiles knew he was the only one to recognize it. To anyone else his father probably sounded strong and blunt, but another night without proper sleep would leave his dad lagging. 

The conversation drifted once more, back to the injured wolf and its description. Mr. Argent, the one responsible for firing the arrows, tells the group he isn’t sure how the beast managed to escape, but that it would be injured enough to be immobilized. The arrow had pierced its hind leg, cutting deep enough to cut through the flesh entirely, the sharp mechanical broadhead lodging itself in and making it nearly impossible to take out without serious pain and injury. 

“Since it won’t be able to remove the arrow, it won’t be able to heal. The wound will fester and sour, become infected, and more than likely the leg will have to be removed. If it doesn’t get to its pack I imagine he just may die from it.”

Stiles’ arm aches in phantom sympathy for the creature, only because he’d been on the wrong end of an arrows tip before, and in no way was that fun. He still had a scar, and even though Scott had tried to convince him of the supposed appeal of “battle scars” Stiles never saw the mark and thought himself more attractive. Not brave, not strong, not manly. He was simply Stiles, the kid who was always in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He slips out of City Hall unnoticed.


End file.
